Tit For Tat
by Kryss LaBryn
Summary: Yes, I had unmasked him. But was turnabout really fair play? Silly little one-shot.


Tit For Tat

By Kryss LaBryn

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_A/N: Sorry it's been so long since I last published; I do have a completely new one in the wings (still) and I think I even figured out my way around a little roadblock I'd inadvertently set up for myself; as soon as I figure out a title for the new one I'll start posting chapters. Hee. I can't wait to see your faces... :D_

_Meanwhile, have this silly little one-shot. It originally appeared in The Write Stuff's fund-raising compilation, Phantom Variations: Tales from the World of the Opera Ghost; as that was published around five years ago (you can find it on Amazon) I now feel free to share this little tidbit with you. My other story that also appeared there, "Visitations," is already up here._

_Enjoy! :)_

* * *

I suppose, in retrospect, his reaction _was_ justified. I _had_ rather violated his privacy in the worst possible way; he had even specifically requested (or warned me, rather) to not touch his mask.

But I did.

I was not expecting a raging demon to appear before my eyes; I had not anticipated his fury. To be perfectly honest I had not thought at all. But even if I _had_ stopped to think, I doubt I would have expected more than irritation, a perturbed, "Well, _that's_ torn it!" from the handsome, the _normal_ face that would undoubtedly be revealed.

Honestly, I could not have behaved more boorishly had I crept up behind him and yanked down his elegant black trousers.

I freely acknowledge that. I cannot, however, in any way condone the method he used to communicate his perspective on the matter. And I do not know if I would ever forgive him.

He had raged at me, unmasked, like the Devil himself before dragging himself, full of despair, into his room.

He began to play what I could only assume was his own composition—for it was unlike any other music I have ever heard, before or since; it was heart-rending in its sorrow and beauty. And I could not help but be struck anew by his genius, and his tragedy.

With firm resolve I pushed open his door and approached as near as I dared. "Erik, I cried, "I swear that you are the most sublime of men, and if ever again I shudder to look upon you, it will be because I am thinking of the splendour of your genius!"

He paused, but did not turn. "I wish I could believe that," he murmured, a little wryly. I dared to creep a little closer.

"I truly am sorry, Erik," said I, guiltily.

"Well, we'll see, won't we?" Abruptly he swept away his score into an untidy pile, and chose another sheaf of music, this one printed in regular black notes, from a nearby stack. "Do you know Carmen's aria?"

"Do you mean 'Habanera'?"

"Yes, that's the one. Shall we try this again?"

Much relieved that he didn't seem to be holding a grudge, I indicated my willingness and he began to play.

_"L'amour est un oiseau rebelled, que nul ne peut apprivoiser_," I sang, taking perverse joy in Carmen's song.

_"Et __c'est l'autre que je préfère__, Il __n'a rien dit mais il__ me __plaît__. __L'amour__! __L'amour__! __L'amour__! __L'amour__!" _I closed my eyes and raised my arms above my head, letting her song pour from my throat, when suddenly—

Rrrriiipp!

The music had stopped. I suddenly felt cooler. In shocked disbelief, I kept my eyes closed a moment longer. _Surely_ this was a nightmare…

My eyes flew open in astonished dread. As I had feared, I was bared to his suddenly hungry gaze. All my buttons had come off when he had torn at my gown; even the hasps along the front of my corset were bent and distorted. My chemise was irreparable.

All this I noted in an instant, before, with an outraged shriek, I gathered the torn remnants of cloth across my naked breast. Only then, almost casually, did he bother to look up.

"Fair's fair," he remarked, casual in the face of my speechless fury, only the barest gleam at the back of his skull-like eye sockets betraying the strength of his emotions.

"How—How could—_Erik!_ What were you _thinking_?!"

"I wanted to see what you looked like," he replied in that same maddeningly calm tone. "I am not fully versed in the social conventions of polite society, of course, but surely if a particular behaviour is acceptable for a politely-raised, virtuous young girl, then a poor Opera Ghost may similarly indulge."

Speechless, I simply glared in affronted outrage.

"Besides," he continued mildly, "What's sauce for the gander is sauce for the goose."

"Erik!"

"All's fair in love and war… And opera…"

"_Erik!_"

"Tit for tat."

There was nothing I could say. Gathering the remnants of my dignity, and my blouse, as tightly as I could, I simply turned on my heel and fled to my room.

"At least _I_ didn't scream and try to run away!" he yelled after me.

Slamming the door, I threw myself, sobbing, onto the bed. How _could_ he?

Gradually, I began to realize that he had truly done no more to me than I had to him. I was still furious, but I had begun to understand.

I could only _hope_ we were even!


End file.
